by Bruce Wagner
Her grandma used to say, “Don’t just do something—sit there!” It felt so magical to just sit, to sit with your man in the y ambience of an amazing Hollywood restaurant and be waited on by pretty, young, happy-faced servers, talented, gorgeous people with probably the same exotic/normal hopes and dreams you had, actors, singer-songwriters & painters, plus Reeyonna thought a lot of them were more like her too in that they didn’t necessarily think of themselves as “artists” but of the type, say, who might want to become crime scene investigators or forensic pathologists should they have the time and money to go to med school or whatever school or lab you needed to go train. The servers made you feel good about yourself, they wanted you to love the food and the ambience (how could you not?), they wanted you just to be you, & to love yourself because if you did, it would be so obvious, you would shine, and shine your light on others, thus making it easier for them to love themselves even if it looked like they already did because a person could always love themselves more and the more they loved themselves the greater their love could be for you and the whole world. From their table Reeyonna saw part of a huge stone statue in the garden dining area (the person she spoke to on the phone said the garden tables were booked 6 months ahead at minimum), which their server (an actor, gay, who said he’d just done a New Girl) told them was an Indian god called Shiva. Shiva was young and freshfaced handsome, just like one of the servers, he looked so amazing and peaceful, a little like Ryan Seacrest but more manly, Shiva’s smile reminded her of Adam Levine’s right at that moment when his eyes are closed in blissful meditation and he’s about to press the button before the others. As Reeyonna sat there taking everything in she decided not even to let the baby weight she put on—30 lbs.—upset her. On the ride over they passed a Nike billboard that said you are entirely up to you, make your body, make your life, make yourself. She’d learn a lot from Nike ads/affirmations & decided now was the perfect time to truly “make” this body—and this life—her own. Because suddenly it was so clear how a small ripple that began with a romantic dinner at Sur between two people who loved each other & loved their servers and all the patrons too on a faultless dusk soon-to-be (not soon enough!) night in West Hollywood (as Shiva & perhaps some older celebrities in the garden looked on) could expand and travel one knew not where, becoming a wave of light & love that helped to make the world a better place.
OMG the food was crazy good. She couldn’t wait to bring her BFFs here, she missed them so much! Since she ran away everyone was planning to get together but something always happened and it got fucked up. ReeRee had the shrimp dumpling appetizer that http://www.twisting-the-nosh-away/sur-menu-faves/ said was a fave of the Olsens & Rikki had the calamari Jimmy Fallon scarfed whenever he was on the “Left Coast.” For their salads, Rikki chose the Fantasia (HeMo said it was to die for) and Ree settled on the deceptively simple amazingly fresh house salad. A taste bud treat! For her entree, she ordered the vegetarian Arborio rice that Alicia Silverstone, Amber Tamblyn & Anna Paquin found so alluring (Mrs. Paquin Moyer also adored the lemon picada chicken) & Rikki got the Ahi tuna that Lamar & Khloé twittered about. For dessert? A blackberry cobbler that Sur’s Facebook page said Dr. Drew always ordered “without fail” (also a fave of the late Jeff Conaway and the late Mike Starr), & a trio of sorbets which happened to be loved by the trio of Ivanka Trump, Ashlee Simpson & Lake Bell.
After three glasses of wine, ReeRee made up her mind to not just do something, sit there—meaning, past the verbally contracted 6:30PM ultimatum. It wasn’t until 6:45 that the hostess approached with a sweetly pained expression to say she needed their table, which by then was totally fine. ReeRee had proved her point, that she was someone to be reckoned with.
They sauntered out. Still no paparazzi & the night was still bright.
. . .
They took Coldwater then turned left, west on Mulholland, tracing the mountain’s spine until they reached a lookout with benches facing the Valley. Rikki lit a joint & they smoked for a while, standing/straddling the little bike like a wooden horse and staring into the glittertwink.
“Rikki, I want to move out of that house.”
Silence.
Wind.
All of the lights, above & below.
She was buzzed from the weed and the 7.5 vikes.
The MDMA was fading . . .
“We can find like a little apt above a garage in Hollywood or even the Valley. On Craigslist month to month.”
Silence & whistly wind between silences.
“I just keep having this feeling, I’ve had it since I got pregnant. That once we get a home of our own, good shit’ll start to happen for us.”
They got off the bike and stood on the lip of the lookout where the grass met the dirt of the hill. Teenage wastedland. A good 10 minutes standing & staring into the bejeweled voidspace of the world. Benched themselves. Took in cityscape & night sky. Finished the blunt. Bathed in ½-wind/½-breeze, ½-warm/½-cool. ReeRee goosebumpshivered. Holyshit I am so loaded Rikki this shit is so intense I am so, sooooooooooo fucking stoned.
Jus sittin on the dark of the bench . . . wastin’ time. Wasted—
This bench is so weird . . .
. . . does it seem weird to you?
wind and silence wind and silence silence wind swhoosh swhoosh swhoosh what IS that. Oh. Cars. Three cars. That’s so weird they’re behind us but it totally sounded like they were in front of us. In the sky. A fourth one slows—a couple looking for their own empty lookout. They clock Ree & Rikki & then the car vanishes.
Half a swhoosh . . . . . . . . . . . . .
“Rikki, you have got to promise me one thing, you have to. Our baby is going to be beautiful but if something’s wrong with it which there will not be but if there is you have to totally promise you will love it like you would a baby who was perfect.” Crying now. “Because what I’m saying is there is no such thing as a baby who isn’t totally fucking perfect. Will you promise?”
“Shit yeah. Course I will.”
She liked the firmness of his response. In that unexpected, cool voice she began to sing I am beautiful no matter what they say trailing it off to nothingness/voidspace again.
Then:
Quiet inward ruminations on both ends.
Then:
“You know, maybe I’ll get that movie.”
“OMG, wouldn’t that be insane?” Her own voice startles her and she realizes how stoned she is again. But so happy! “How much do you think you’d get paid?”
“I don’t know. Shit. They gotta give me sumthin,” he said humbly, ever aware not to jinx.
“Probably like a hundred thousand? I am so proud of you for doing that, Rikki. I mean you fucking suited up & showed up, which is way more than I’ve been doing.”
“You’re doing a lot. You’re fuckin having a kid. That’s amazing. That’s serious, I couldn’t do that shit.”
“Did I tell you that? How proud I was of you? OMG I don’t even think I did, I’ve been a total fucking bitch. Ima crazy hormones. But listen to me Rikki are you listening I really want you to listen and hear this, it is so fucking amazing you even did that & that your audition was with Michael Douglas & Laurence Fishburne! OMG! How bitchen and magical is that? Did I ever tell you I really only started getting into CSI really late? Like when Laurence Fishburne came on the show? He is so totally the reason I wanted to become a crime scene investigator. He was totally in my vision.”
“Vision?”
She grabbed Rikki’s hand & held it to her belly for the babykick.
“Whoa,” said Rikki. “Boy’s gunna be a soccer superstar.”
“Unless it’s a girl.”
“Then girl’ll be a soccer superstar.”
Quiet. Just wind, light. Warm. Lovely. His arm around her.
“I had this total vision of our life. A few weeks ago. I mean, of the life we could have, will have. I didn’t tell you about it because I thought you’d laugh.”
“I wouldn’t laugh, Ree.”
/> He kissed her cheek & caressed her hair. Daubed an already flat tear on her cheekbone with one of his knuckles she liked that.
“We were in all the magazines—————!”
“Is that right?” he said, happy to go along. Happy she was out of bitch mode, happy to be having kind of a chummy little bullshit romantic moment even if he wasn’t attracted to her, even if he thought he never would be again, even if just the thought of fucking her made him want to puke. But happy and glad tho, just now, to be talkin about when they’d be ballin . . .
“I was pushing one of these really expensive strollers, with our toddler. & you were holding Baby #2 in your arms. & there were already all these articles about how fast I shed my baby weight.”
“So we’re gunna have two?”
“Maybe more,” she smiled.
“Was I ripped? I mean, am I gunna be ripped? You can at least give me a six-pack.”
“You already have one. But yeah, in my vision you’re totally ripped, like Cameron Diaz!”
“Hey that ain’t right.”
“OK Jennifer Garner then. No seriously. In my vision, there was a toddler and a newborn. I can’t explain it but it was like way more than a daydream. I saw in my head this magazine, right? And I wasn’t even stoned. Well maybe a little. & in the magazine there was this shot of Tom, Katie & Suri next to a shot of Ben & Jennifer and Violet & Seraphina. And next to them was you & me, our family.”
“What did we name our kids?”
“It didn’t say. In the vision. But you were the famous one, it was really clear about that.”
“Famous for what?”
“Like, movies & television.”
“Aw-ite. Tha’s tight. I can live with that, without the Cameron Diaz part, I don’t wanna be lookin like no Cammy D!”
“In the vision, Laurence Fishburne took you under his wing but you became more famous. And he was a gentleman about it, he didn’t become envious or bare a grudge. In my vision, you’re like as famous as Will Smith, who by the way we are going to be very close with, their kids are much older but like, Jada’s gunna be our kids’ godmom.”
“Jada’s one of their kids?”
“No, Jada Pinkett, Will’s wife———”
“O yeah! The swingers & shit? The swinger shit’s dope.”
“———and I’ve already finished forensics school. I could have worked for the city like the city of Los Angeles, for the LAPD, the city really wanted me to but I decided to just, like, be a consultant on CSI. That way I can spend more time home with the kids. And even though he’s not on the show anymore, because Laurence is our friend, he helped get me the job. On CSI. Right?”
“That’s right, he’s family. I mean the mutherfucker made me. Always did me a solid, just like Denzel to Antwone. Hey, are we gunna have a sextape?”
“No. Well——we might have. No, I know! Someone hacked nude pics that I took on my cell & sent you in middleschool, I was totally underage but they’re these amazing——”
“I know the one’s you’re talking about.”
“No you don’t, not these ones, because I’m totally making it up! Anyway, I’m amazing looking & they’re totally tastefully done, like Scarlett’s, I totally look bitchen & our publicist—our publicist is going to say ‘Reeyonna’s not ashamed of those pictures’ & I’ll give interviews like Heather Morris and Kreayshawn did about theirs, saying very cool & calm that I knew they would eventually come to light. But in my vision, I probably have to change my name, there can’t be two famous Reeyonnas!”
“Say ma name same ma name———how about using Jerilynn?”
(playful) “Fuck you!”
“Hey, in your vision, do you like have us goin into rehab and shit?”
“NO. Well . . . . . . . maybe. It’s not in my vision but maybe there’s some kinda drama everybody’s going to want to write about on the internet, you know, something that makes people feel closer to us, lets em see we’re human beings too, you know, like ‘stars are just like them’———& o! And we have like 6 million followers on Twitter!”
“Right on.”
“Maybe you go to rehab . . . . .”
“Hey now c’mon be fair.”
“And our publicist like says ‘Rikki realized he had a problem with the painkillers he was taking after recent surgery on his knee—————’”
“Hey that’s in your vision, not mine. I ain’t goin to no rehab.”
“—————all like ‘Rikki knew he had to do something about it.’ You’ll like go to Promises right near our Malibu beach house but it’s like a one-time thing. You get day passes anyway because you’ll have one of those sober companions. If I went to rehab, it’d have to be like for something that wasn’t drugs, like for bipolar or maybe outing myself for bulimia. And when I got out I’d go on all the talkshows, like Ellen & Anderson Cooper & maybe even become a spokesperson for raising awareness in teens.”
“Where did you say we were living again?”
“Well, we have a beach house in Malibu, like next to all our celebrity friends. But we’d have a house up here too, on Mulholland. And on weekends we’d go to the beach & barbecue with friends, like Scarlett & Naya & Minka & all the Kardashians, whoever’s in town. And Katniss Everdeen! We’d be tight with Matthew McConaughey and his wife, our kids are gunna play with their kids. (Their kids are Levi & Vida, I so love those names.) Matthew would teach our son to surf. And Laird Hamilton, he lives in Malibu with Gabrielle. We’ll probably have a house in Hawaii & also a big apt in NY, maybe in the same building as Carrie Bradshaw.”
“I want to be friends with some rappers, girl. Are we tight with the youngmoney crew? I want to be all partying with Drizzy and shit.”
Reeyonna froze, putting her palm flat on her pant pocket. Rikki said,
“Cause we need to be down with Weezy & Ye.” He saw the blood run out of her face. “What’s the matter girl?”
“My wallet————————————”
“Your purse—in the pouch?”
“No, I don’t think,” she said, trancelike. “I’ve been carrying it with me. It has all the money . . . . . . . . . .”
“Hold on. Hold on. We’ll find it. You had it at the restaurant cause that’s how we paid, right? With the money.”
Reeyonna didn’t answer.
She got up and ran to the pouch—nothing. Shocky, she walked to where they 1st stood, where the hill begins to slope down. “Where’s your phone?” she said.
They crouched down as he shined the phone here & there.
“We need to go back——————OMG. O M G!”
“Don’t lose your wig, Ree. We’ll find it. We’re gunna find it. Cmon, let’s go back. To the restaurant.”
As they climbed on the bike he asked her why she was carrying all cashmoney anyway. She said because she thought Tom-Tom might go thru her shit & steal it.
“Rikki, if I lost that money I’m going to fucking kill myself.”
“No you’re not.”
“I am. I’m serious.”
This time it’s lively at Sur.
6 or 7 paparrazzi out front . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Rikki waits for the hostess while ReeRee goes to look in the bathroom. There is zero chance the wallet would be in there but in her dreamlike moment of desperation, she wouldn’t be surprised to find herself checking her socks to see if the money found its way to the bottom of her foot or on the way home maybe searching the high branches of tall dark faraway trees.
The hostess is kind, but there’s only a sad solitary set of keys in the makeshift lost & found drawer. Have you asked the valet? Rikki says, we didn’t valet park. Oh, uhm, OK. Well give me your name & your number & we’ll call if it turns up. Sometimes things just turn up.
Reeyonna tells him she’s going back to where they 1st parked for dinner. She walks then runs. Two s pounding, hers & the little one’s . . . she actually starts getting hopeful because she’s already visualizing the wallet in t
he gutter, she can see it fortuitously hidden in shadow from potential thieves. She has these strong visions . . . sees herself grabbing it with joyful expulsion of breath & preg-sprinting back to Sur screaming I found it! Rikki, I found it! Can hear herself saying that—both laughing at the averted horror then going to celebrate at Millions of Milkshakes which for some reason they’d fatefully forgotten to before . . .
Rikki decided he might as well take a piss. The hostess kind of eyed him as he came in again and walked past, that trespassy look subtly informing that a courtesy was being bestowed because his right to pee had expired.
He stood at the urinal. Someone flushed then opened the stall door, no stench. The man went to the sink to wash. Rikki stole a glance—Laurence Fishburne.
And the actor was gone.
CLEAN
[Jacquie]
Toiling, Spinning
The
family loved the hospital portraits. The experience of going to their Northridge home with proofsheets—watching Ginger bend like a scholar to look through the loupe—was something Jacquie would never forget. The husband was at work, & Jacquie was glad. For a man, the death of his infant was a cold, finite event; for two moms, a chance to commune with a firefly soul that seemed just then to be as present as it was incorporeal. Yet for all Jacquie’s supernal rationalizations—the baby’s quicksilver, inextinguishable life force must be grieved over yet not mourned, a specious riddle reinforced by the mom’s truly spiritual equanimity, born, reasoned Jacquie, by the knowledge of the Great Mother that we are wont to finally seek that plot of infinite lilies of the field—for all Jacquie’s tiny, supernatural theories, each calculated to minimize and repress, to expunge & make palatable the horror of what happened, on the way to her car she felt the unbearable, queasy sorrow of living-mother/dead-child aloneness like a gust of hot propeller wind at her back & feared with each step she might turn to stone.
